


Bodily Due

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Painful Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 04:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20040166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: The days in Ishval are long, and the last thing Kimblee needs is more thwarted expectations.





	Bodily Due

**Author's Note:**

> While I do think the scene in canon is probably the first time Riza and Kimblee meet, the fudging here isn't consequential enough to warrant a canon divergence tag.
> 
> Thanks to friends for encouraging me every time I was struggling with this.

There is nothing special about Riza Hawkeye. Kimblee knew this immediately. Her looks are middling: Amestrian blonde hair cut unflatteringly short, and large, cow-round eyes. She has ample breasts, but rarely doffs her jacket to display them. She attempts to keep her brow unwrinkled and mouth flat, and her posture perfectly straight; far from exuding serenity, these efforts mean she merely looks sad and as ready to snap as a taut elastic band.

In conversation, she is bright but reserved, and while not ignorant, there is a smack of naivety in her understanding of the topics she insists on bringing up. Her grasp of the nature of war is immature. Her confidence in her own abilities is smothered by shame. 

Worst of all, she sulks. 

“I’m not allowed to feel upset at what I’m doing, sir?” she says, bitter as the sludge left at the bottom of his cup of coffee. 

“Of course not.” Today Hawkeye’s found him at the empty end of a mess table, so he doesn’t bother to keep his voice low. “In fact, I would say it’s a soldier’s duty not to feel upset.”

“It’s not that easy for _me_, Major.”

The redheaded private two tables away meets Kimblee’s eyes again. He returns the look steadily, the first shivers of anticipation licking to life beneath his skin. The private has full lips and a promising curiosity.

Kimblee’s first lover in Ishval, now a distant memory, was a lieutenant. He brushed Kimblee aside at first contact, insisting he only liked women. Perhaps ten minutes’ more tedious conversation and Kimblee was hearing himself called “sweetheart” while he sucked the man off. Reciprocation had been more difficult to wrangle, but a careful bit of flattery got Kimblee what he was owed in the end. Other encounters went similarly, with more or less persuasion. 

And so he had a pleasant routine. Under the punishing Ishvalan sun, Kimblee left camp to hunt and returned to hotter mouths and living bodies. Sleep had never come easy to him, but a good day’s work and a semi-regular schedule of orgasms calmed the restlessness as well as anything he could remember. It was like being twenty years old again, splendidly virile and awash in the throbbing new experiences of leaving home. It was good.

At Kimblee’s side, Hawkeye puts her hand around the back of her neck, embarrassed by his silence. 

The private’s gaze snaps to her, and softens. 

The pleasant shivering dies a dry and sour death.

Two weeks ago Hawkeye transferred here, made Kimblee’s acquaintance, and then made it her mission to cling to him like a parasite. She seems to like him well enough, and he’s known worse company, but her presence has had an unbearable, unforgivable effect on his lifestyle. It’s not difficult to notice that the men’s cocks mostly point at her, now.

He shifts to face Hawkeye more fully and sighs. “I’m afraid you have some terribly romantic notions. You think—”

“I don’t have—”

“You _think_,” says Kimblee sharply, “that you can simply wallow in this self-imposed misery and your work won’t suffer as a result.”

Hawkeye scowls. “I’ve never missed a shot, sir.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Respectfully,” she says petulantly, “what does it matter to you?”

He grabs her wrist, squeezing the bone hard enough to make her gasp. “It _matters_ because I care about the effectiveness of my fellow soldiers,” he snaps. “Do you think your little frown inspires confidence? Do you think I’ll always have the charity and time to listen to you whine and pick you up every time you can’t control your own emotions?” Her eyes shine with shock and fear. Kimblee squeezes harder. “It _matters_ because I have to look at you.”

Hawkeye makes a pained noise, her gaze riveted to his. He wants, suddenly and strangely, to kiss her—to shatter the shield of her deference. 

She jerks her arm away the moment he releases his grip. She shoots to her feet, hands shaking as she collects her dishes. “I’ve got,” she says in a rush, “must leave—sir.”

She might look back at him as she goes. He doesn’t notice if she does, turning his attention back to the other table. But the redheaded private is already gone. Kimblee presses his lips together and stares into the dregs of his coffee.

It’s been precisely three weeks since his last real work. They instructed him to clear a few homes on the outskirts of a district, a small test of the new weapon. Instead, Kimblee levelled the neighborhood. 

If he could sew a pouch in his uniform to keep this stone over his breast, he would wear it continuously at his heart. As it is, he stores it securely in the pockets of his trousers. In private moments, he familiarizes himself with its sharp edges and smooth crystalline facets. He lets it rest between his first and second fingers, the way he holds a cigarette; he rubs it between his first finger and thumb, the way he sometimes pinches his own nipple while pleasuring himself. He was sleepless after the demonstration of its power, heart pounding in exhilaration. Inconceivably, the alchemy had spent almost nothing of him, and he rushed to correct the balance. The anticipation of the next use was almost more than his body could endure.

But they refuse to deploy him again. They cite coordination efforts, future targets, his safety; all excuses. He receives nothing but empty reassurance in between updates on the other units, all of whom appear to be perfectly active. It seems a gross misuse of resources. Why give him a weapon beyond comprehension if they’re not going to order him to wield it? The contradiction plagues him, and bodies have become few and far between to soothe his thoughts.

By himself Kimblee could raze this worthless province into glass and dust and more blood than any of these soldiers could imagine. Enough for the entire regiment to bathe in together. He has more than half a mind to march into headquarters himself and demand their full attention. Such thoughts _require _distractions. 

He sweats in bed and fantasizes. He imagines the hands of a dozen strangers on his body at once, feeling and tugging, pinching and scratching, eager for a piece. The moment one man leaves, he is replaced, so there is no interruption of sensation. Their cocks go in his mouth, one or two at a time, but he could swallow both men, a hundred of them, a thousand, and still want more. 

Hawkeye’s breasts fill the space around him, no matter how she hides them. Her hips knock the others out of reach. 

***

Major Mustang comes to camp the day after Kimblee loses his temper. He’s fortunate to be pissing at the northern latrines when the truck arrives. Mustang steps out, rolls his shoulders, and makes eye contact. Kimblee waves. After a second’s cool hesitation, Mustang returns the gesture and adds a curious smile.

Kimblee grins to himself. Then he fusses with tucking his cock away in his trousers until the others from the truck have passed, and the timing is right to fall in with Mustang’s commanding stride toward the officers’ tent.

“You’re early, aren’t you?”

“By a few days. It went faster than anyone expected.”

“Do you know who I am?” Kimblee asks him.

His gaze goes, delightfully, to Kimblee’s palms. “Yes.”

Mustang’s jaw is weak, but he’s sharp everywhere else: the spikes of his unkempt hair, the narrow ends of his eyes, the corners of his thin lips. His back feels dense with muscle when Kimblee claps a casual hand on him. “Well, I’m very glad to meet you at last.”

When Kimblee’s hand lingers and slides a fraction down toward arrow-straight hips, even Mustang’s sidelong glance pierces. 

“Oh yeah?”

The first time Kimblee _noticed_ another person, he was ten years old and standing in front of the school. A youth, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, crossed the road in front of him, calling something to a friend and raising his right arm. It was wiry with adolescent muscle, and the gesture exposed the patchy down of hair beneath it. All at once a strange excitement scorched to life inside Solf. He was too young for a real erection; the yearning was in his stomach, tight and hot and twisting. He never did manage to snuff it out. 

The feeling he has with Mustang is like that, calmed with age to something like a hum. Of course, there are also erections now.

“Yes,” he says. “A fellow alchemist? You’ll be much better to talk to than most of these oafs.”

A blush would suit Mustang’s face. But he doesn’t blush, only twists his mouth a little with surprise and maybe regret. “I have to give my report now.”

“Well, come find me. If you have the time.”

The visible sliver of Mustang’s chest is nearly hairless. But Kimblee hopes—knows—it will be different beneath those well-fitted trousers. Aside from one memorable occasion with a Cretan prostitute, there is always a tangle of hair like a nest at the base of a cock that holds scent as well as a flower’s center. He’ll know Mustang once between his legs. Kimblee wants him turned from a sharp thorn to sticky, pliant honeycomb. In his hands, Mustang will soften and drip. 

***

Mustang does not find him. Mustang heads out again barely two days later. When Kimblee presses the colonel for upcoming plans, he is reminded to exercise patience.

He finds a weak, scrambling fuck with a new private, fresh off the convoy, who has never heard of Riza Hawkeye and gets stabbed through the collar the next day. He wishes he was twenty years old again. The women he knew then were only mild perturbations in his life as they passed through it. They didn’t linger.

He’s waiting for the end of mail call—he doesn’t receive letters, but the superiors act so disturbed by that confession that it’s simpler to attend and bear the tedium—when he spots Hawkeye beside another man. Close beside: he’s a lieutenant, Norris, normally tall, now bowed to push his beaky nose in Hawkeye’s face. She looks at Kimblee directly. He crosses the yard.

“Norris.”

Norris scowls.

“Major Kimblee,” says Hawkeye. 

Kimblee gives Norris a look. Not _that_ kind of look; one meant to send away instead of lure. It turns out Norris knows a little etiquette. He mutters, “See you ‘round,” and walks away. 

“You’re welcome,” says Kimblee. “Did he even get around to making his advance?”

“Not directly. But it was clear enough.”

“It always is with unattractive men.”

With Norris gone, Hawkeye’s shoulders lose some of the tension always visible when she’s speaking to other people, though she still seems uncomfortable. When Kimblee looks down, she’s holding her wrist. “Are you going to run off, too?” he asks, amused.

She says nothing. He holds out his hand, sighing. “I behaved impulsively. Let me see it.”

“I think I’d know by now if it was injured.” But she still allows him to take her wrist.

“You seem well,” he says as he examines her. No bruising. A stray freckle on the back of her hand. “Cheekiness suits you better than sulking.” He turns her wrist over. “What would you have said if I’d given him his chance?”

His thumb rests on her pulse; a strange shiver crosses her face. “No.”

He thinks about the blood just beneath the soft skin, rushing hot through her body. If someone did fuck her, he muses, it would be like sticking a pin into a butterfly for collection. Watch her wriggle.

“So I shouldn’t read into your calling me over?”

She slips her hand free without effort. 

“If I wanted _that_ from you,” she says tartly, “you would know by now, too.”

***

“Work soon,” the colonel advises him.

“_When?_”

“Just be ready.”

That night, Kimblee only thinks about a single man’s hands pressed against his chest. The vision is so clear it chafes.

***

Mustang’s mission is short, which is good for the country, and Kimblee’s sanity. Days after a promise that left him flush with anticipation, there’s been no follow-up. He’s beginning to entertain fantasies that have nothing to do with his cock but everything to do with the red stone in his pocket. Death was the first excitement he had as a child, a fascination that could be mistaken as erotic. Perhaps he is regressing. 

“You should look at someone else in a room once in a while,” says Mustang as they leave the debriefing.

Kimblee glances at him, squinting against the sun. “You’re a surprisingly hard man to track down. I didn’t want you to slip away again.”

“I’ll be here a while this time,” says Mustang. “The east is the primary front now.”

“Wonderful news.”

Mustang laughs a little. His eyes look puffy and purple underneath. “Is it?”

“Certainly. For now at least.”

The air between them is so hot and dry it’s nearly electric. 

“I’ve got to meet a friend,” says Mustang.

“Careful,” says Kimblee, smiling. “I might start feeling jealous.”

Mustang grins. “I’ll see you later.”

***

In Mustang’s unoccupied tent, Kimblee looks, for a moment, at the cot, glowing golden in the light that seeps through the canvas. He longs to lay naked on it and wait to be found. Perhaps he could bind himself with rope, offer himself on the altar of Mustang’s tongue. They share the common language of alchemy, whose straightforward rules encourage civility in all one’s exchanges; but he’d like to see the give and take sharpened to a knife-point. 

His gaze wanders to a rucksack neatly bundled beneath the bed. 

Inside it, there’s a rather impressive stack of letters, most addressed from Central City. One envelope has a woman’s lipstick print across the flap. Kimblee opens it, and smiles as he reads. Apparently Mustang, in his evidently passionate civilian life, convinced a harlot to fall in love with him. Beneath the letters is an empty cigarette case and a peanut brittle tin, which contains only two pairs of the ignition gloves Mustang wears for his alchemy.

Kimblee examines one. From a sniff, it’s clearly unused. The outer cloth is coarse, and so is the lining when he slips it on and flexes his fingers. He’s surprised; to wear these, Mustang must find some enjoyment in the rasp against his skin...

The image comes to him with the fine detail of a photograph, so vivid that he has to recreate it immediately. He reaches in his trousers, pulls out his cock, and holds it tight with the gloved hand. 

He can’t help but like the picture it makes. The organ seems unassuming, laying pink and wrinkled against the rough white fabric, but he knows the truth. A few good strokes and he’d be as powerful as the alchemy stitched on the back of the glove. It would look even nicer if he was already hard. But he brought himself to release just that morning. He wants a hand that’s not his own, even if only bare-skinned. 

Kimblee replaces everything as he found it and slides the rucksack away. He should suggest tattooing to Mustang. Practical, elegant, hardly more difficult than embroidery. For a better alchemist and a better man. 

He is so hungry.

***

He’s drinking coffee in the sun, thinking alternately of corpses and cocks, when he sees them sit down together. 

Mustang looks worn, Hawkeye flushed and haunted, but they speak as freely with each other as old friends—or lovers.

Dull, and then sharp, jealousy stirs in Kimblee’s chest. He’s close enough that he can hear the inanity of the conversation over his heart beating loud in his ears. Far enough away that neither of them have so much as glanced in his direction.

She’s a parasite, sucking blood from him and filling Mustang’s cock with it instead.

He leans forward. He asks a clarifying question or two. 

And Mustang seizes him by the collar with easy strength, _shakes_ him…

It’s funny. It just makes Kimblee want him more.

When the bell breaks them apart, he steals another glance at Hawkeye. At the sight of her shattered expression, he can’t keep the smile from lifting his mouth.

***

The officers celebrate recent successes around a small fire as the sun begins to set. While the other men drink, Kimblee hovers with a cigarette until he finally catches Mustang’s eye. Then he crushes the tobacco beneath his heel and strolls away, heading to the deserted backside of the rows of barracks. 

He waits several minutes in the descending dusk, and is just beginning to consider another cigarette when footsteps approach. 

“I don’t like what you said to Hawkeye,” says Mustang when he’s close.

Kimblee crosses his arms. “Is she your girlfriend or something?”

“It’s not like that,” says Mustang, and the constricting feeling in Kimblee’s chest relaxes a little. “But you upset her. It’s not right.”

Kimblee returns Mustang’s glare with a sort of mild concern. “She’s looked that way as long as I’ve known her.”

“It’s different for her out here. She’s—younger, and—” He struggles to control his voice. “She’s got enough to deal with already. I’m telling you not to bother her again.”

The injustice of it rankles. But Mustang is still here, and it’s not as though Kimblee’s never been angry with someone during sex before. He’s good at hiding it. After sufficient silence, he makes the only reply he can: “All right.” 

A shorter pause this time, while Mustang runs a nervous hand through his hair. Kimblee tilts his head. “Why did you follow if you were so upset with me?”

Mustang cracks a sad little smile. “Don’t make me say it.”

Kimblee shrugs. He puts his hand on Mustang’s hip. Mustang tenses like a tightened bow, but his bend pulls to Kimblee instead. After that it’s easy: Kimblee curls his fingers under the belt, tugs, and Mustang’s mouth slides open like honey for the kiss.

“Not only are you a chase, you’re a tease,” says Kimblee. He reaches under the jacket and surveys Mustang’s muscles through his shirt, pressing on them and winning little gasps each time. “I’ve waited long enough to get my hands on you.”

Mustang’s voice is breathless. “What do you want?”

In answer, Kimblee sucks Mustang’s lower lip and squeezes his cock through his pants.

“I’m very good at it,” he murmurs. “I like it.”

“Fuck,” says Mustang thickly. His hands find Kimblee’s waist, but timidly. By the time they decide to migrate to Kimblee’s shoulders and suggest descent, he’s already sinking to his knees. 

There is a half-stifled groan when Kimblee begins sucking, but after that, Mustang is quiet. His cock is salty and a bit sour. Kimblee doesn’t have to let it slide down his throat until his nose rests against the sparse black hair at its base in order to smell the sweat. 

But he does anyway, eager for a reaction. When he focuses his attention on the cock’s head, he provokes a few drops of bitter fluid. Mustang moans quietly, hips tensing, but he still doesn’t reach for anything harder. In fact, he relaxes his grip on Kimblee’s shoulder as if afraid to touch him.

But Kimblee wants painful hands in his hair and rough, choking thrusts in his mouth, not this calm sucking. He can’t really lose himself in a man unless he’s given permission by a little bit of violence. But once allowed—that’s when he can push past the normal and controlled into something sublime. Shouldn’t Mustang, of all people, understand that? Kimblee takes the cock down his throat again, over and over, stroking the shaft with his hand when he comes up for air. If he can swallow it deep enough, hard enough—then, maybe then—

“Oh—” Mustang says in warning, and a shudder passes through him at the same moment Kimblee feels the ejaculate spurt in his mouth. 

He’s barely pulled back before Mustang is tucking himself away and zipping up. Kimblee swallows and goes for his own trousers as he stands, peering at Mustang’s face through the gloom. Now there should be some color in those cheeks. Mustang glances off to one side. 

He says, “I’m afraid I—I’m feeling a little tired.” 

The taste of come is still thick on Kimblee’s tongue. “What?”

“I have to report at dawn. I can’t—” Mustang waves his hand vaguely, looking away again. “I need to sleep.”

Kimblee’s face feels strangely hot. His fly is half-open, but his fingertips appear to have gone numb. “Well, isn’t this selfish.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Mustang; and then, “Don’t be upset,” with all the childish sullenness he clearly possesses. 

“No? You’re reneging on your end of the exchange,” hisses Kimblee. “This is hardly equivalent.”

“_My_—we didn’t make—” Mustang laughs in disbelief. “You come off obsessed. Do you know that? Not everything is alchemy.” His words bleed into each other from lack of concentration, or maybe just weakness. “Besides, I know the way you talk about it. You’re too concerned with theory, when alchemists should really be prioritizing what we can do for other people.”

He is passionate—but his passions are painfully uncouth, ill-bred as an immature blackberry, oafish. Easy to rouse. Kimblee re-fastens the button over his deflated cock.

“I’m perfectly happy to discuss that as well,” he says. “How do _you_ think it feels to be burned alive?”

Mustang’s jaw tightens. “Get away from me.”

_Those_ words are clipped and clear. Kimblee takes two steps away, then turns back. 

“I think you’ve misjudged my intentions,” he says. ”This wasn’t meant as a service. I’m not a whore.”

Mustang’s eyes bulge, and his fists clench. “Fuck off. Don’t ever come near me again.”

Kimblee laughs with rather more mirth than he actually feels, and goes.

***

Voices surround him and the sky overhead glitters with stars in any direction he looks. But he can only walk from one end of camp to the other, a long pace back and forth within the confines of a cage. The stone begins to feel hot in his pocket. Beside it, his cock aches. All the frustration of an imprisoned animal: so much powerful energy, and nowhere to direct it.

Slowly he becomes aware of a set of footsteps that are easier to pick out from the shuffle. They walk when he walks, pause when he stops. Kimblee comes to heel at a pit filled with cigarette stubs and waits. After a few moments spent scenting the ash in the air and letting the faint breeze tickle his skin, Hawkeye steps up beside him.

No, she is not special. But in the shadows her eyes seem to glow with a spark all their own. Her mouth is small, chin lifted, her posture pulled up perfectly tight. He can nearly hear the wary, rabbit-quick breaths she takes as she stands in his presence. 

She gives him a hard look, like an erection. 

When she goes, she doesn’t glance back once to see if he’s following. 

He catches up to her at one of the tall Ishvalan towers, where she’s jimmying the lock open. “It was decommissioned last week,” she explains. “Watch post moved to the one a few yards east. We’re expanding.”

When Kimblee shuts the door behind him it seals off the clamor of camp. Inside the stone walls, there’s little noise but their footsteps and the faint rustle of Hawkeye’s clothing. They climb the stairs together, Kimblee staying close behind her. She pauses on the top step and nods at the other tower. “He’ll be able to see in here. Don’t cross in front of the window.”

Kimblee follows her around the rectangle of moonlight on the floor. The available space along the edge of the room is as narrow as a bed. Hawkeye stops short and turns, a silhouette well within his reach. Somehow her stillness doesn’t seem like nerves. Kimblee leans against the wall.

“I’ve been told not to bother you,” he says.

“This is my decision,” she says flatly. 

He doesn’t move as she reaches for him, pulling him in for a kiss by the back of his neck. Her lips are dry but soft—and coaxing. After a moment, he opens his mouth for her, wondering if she tastes the flavor still on his tongue. If she recognizes it. 

She sighs and brings his hand beneath her jacket to her breast, squeezing. A little heat slithers between his legs as he kneads, but it’s slower, as if uncertain. For a time in his youth, he had experimented with acquiring a stronger fondness for the fairer sex; mostly with prostitutes, who asked less of him than girlfriends and provided more opportunities to learn. He came away without much change in who he liked to bed. It’s been years since his last mediocre experience with a woman.

But Hawkeye feels different from them, some of whom forced him to shut his eyes to maintain an erection. Her breast is soft, but the dip of her waist is tightly muscled beneath her uniform, and when she slides her fingers into his hair, her grip is strong. Kimblee’s blood grows more restless. He breaks the kiss to follow the line of her small, hairless jaw, hovering over her pulse.

“Your heartbeat is very fast,” he murmurs. “Are you sure you’re not a little bothered?”

A shaky laugh breaks from her. She raises his hand to her mouth, and he pulls back to watch her suck his fingers—a demonstration of the one thing he really wants out of all this.

Instead, she presses her lips to his palm. As she licks the tattooed skin, a sudden powerful rush of blood leaves him lightheaded. He groans involuntarily and digs his fingers into her ribs; she squeaks as though he’s driven in a knife. He shoves the hand down her trousers, finding soft bare stomach and then the thicket of hair, and lets his fingers flutter in its coarseness. He likes it. He likes the resolve in her face, too, the promise that she’ll see this through. 

The fluttering gives way to stroking. Hawkeye’s grip tightens on his jacket, lips stilling against his palm as her breath roughens. It’s out of time with his, which is just as heavy, just as loud in the small quiet space of the tower. Kimblee’s certain of the feeling filling him now. It’s in his raised cock, the skin where he wears his alchemy, and the place deep in his gut where that fire still burns—he _wants_ her.

She lets him bring them to the floor easily enough. Kimblee bends her forward on her hands and knees and works her trousers down over her hips. When he pushes his fingers in her, she sucks in a sharp breath. There’s not nearly as much wetness as he imagined. He slides the fingers in and out, intent on winning her excitement, and he’s recognizing with no small surprise that he’s looking forward to using his mouth on her when she speaks. 

“I want you to do it the other way.” 

“Hm?” 

“Like this.” She moves his free hand, _very_ deliberately, above the other.

His fingers still. “Sodomy?” he says, swallowing to clear the shock from his throat. “And where did you learn about a thing like that?” 

“You like it, don’t you?”

The confidence in her voice is troubling. He spreads her open with his free hand, gripping the firm muscle hard. “Do _you?"_

“I’m not afraid of it.”

So he puts his mouth to her. Hawkeye gasps, and then whimpers as he searches out every puckered detail. He knows immediately she is freshly washed: the taste, darker and sharper than cunt, is nearly drowned out by the antiseptic smack of soap. Anticipation, Kimblee realizes, can be the only reason for such preparations. 

It pleases him to imagine her wanting and waiting since the morning; perhaps longer than that, perhaps for days or weeks like he’s suffered. He pumps his fingers slowly, savoring the responsive quivers as he licks. The flesh is hot and tender when he pushes his tongue inside, and her hips squirm in what is now unmistakably need. A need for him to touch her here, in the most forbidden of places. 

Slickness suddenly coats his fingers. He shudders, the knife of desire twisting deeper in his groin. Part of him wants to pin her down and take her immediately. Part of him wants to linger, to lick and tease until she melts. For the space of several moments, his mind calms, and there are only the gentle rhythms of his rocking hand and the tip of his tongue dipping in and out.

Then Hawkeye groans, low enough to sound like a man, and the serenity vanishes. Kimblee pulls back, wiping his mouth, and opens his trousers.

“Mustang wants to fuck you,” he tells her. “Did you know that?”

Hawkeye looks back at him sharply. “Well, he’s not here, is he?” she says after a moment.

“I think he’s in love with you.” Kimblee strokes himself. “I sucked his cock because I felt sorry for him.”

Her shock is palpable. Kimblee grins. His cock’s like a rod of iron still glowing with molten heat. When he spits on it, he almost expects it to steam.

“It sounds like he got the less pitiable end of that,” says Hawkeye faintly.

“Does it? Open your legs wider.”

He spits again, and again, until he’s slick along his length. Still, she’s too tense as he moves in close. She’ll be in more pain than strictly necessary. “If I’d wanted more, I would have had it,” he says, steadying himself.

“Wait—”

Her word chokes off in a cry as he breaches her. Kimblee can’t keep silent either. Hawkeye tries to jerk away, but he roots her in place, groaning and sinking into her body far quicker than he intended. He fills her again and again, a compulsion monstrous in its enormity, the motion of thrusting nearly as natural as his fast, heavy breath. Hawkeye muffles her cries of pain with her hand. The first time Kimblee was in her position, he came nearly immediately, and begged the man to keep going. Had he also been such a delight to watch, with ruin marring his face?

“You’re getting everything you want,” he tells her, gripping a handful of her jacket for leverage. If only her hair was longer. He wants to yank on that instead, strip her nude and claw his way across her skin, let her revel in the pain with her entire body. She would _appreciate_ that gift, the way she appreciates his cock now, whimpering and shaking. She wouldn’t toss it aside and laugh in his face...

His heart’s hammering. He suddenly notices, as if from the corner of his eye, that this encounter will be over very, very soon if he doesn’t collect his wits. When he manages to make himself pause, Hawkeye’s panting.

“It _hurts,_” she says.

“I’m jealous.” 

“Wait,” she begs. “Spit on it again.”

Instead, he grabs her wrist. “Put your fingers inside yourself.”

Hawkeye fills herself with a whine. Kimblee lets his eyes shut for a moment, listening to the wet noises settle into a steady cadence. 

Then he slides an arm around her and lowers her to her stomach. In this position he feels her from ankle to shoulder, like a real lover; and she gasps at each slow, deep thrust. He nuzzles her hair, taking a luxurious inhale. Soap again. Fresh and cleaned and prepared for him. He turns her head to see her face again. Her expression has only grown more pained, and more lovely. 

“I want you to come like this,” he whispers, nibbling her ear.

“I can’t—”

_"Yes,_ you can. All you have to do is want it.” 

Hawkeye’s forehead glistens visibly. From the heat, or is it fear-sweat? If Kimblee could taste it, he could tell the difference. But she isn’t craning toward him for that. Her eyes narrow in a fierce glare. “Fine. But I’m going to think about him.”

He thrusts in quickly to make her wince. “Do what you like. It makes no difference to me.”

Hawkeye grits her teeth. Distantly, Kimblee feels her hand working faster, rubbing against his cock through her flesh. 

“Open your mouth,” he demands, and shoves his fingers inside. “Go ahead and pretend,” he hisses in her ear, as his hips find a steady pace. He drags Hawkeye’s face toward the open moonlight. “Look. He could be watching us right now. Would you like that?”

She bites his fingers. The laugh that breaks from him is too loud, too rough, but there’s no repressing it. He wants everything she has to give. The mark of her teeth, the desperation that led her to seek him out, the angry stubborn steel that keeps her fighting him. His cock must burn inside her, and maybe that’ll let her come close to understanding how he feels. He wants her to bite him to the bone. 

“Harder,” he urges. “More. What would Mustang think, seeing you _used_ like this?”

Hawkeye says something around his fingers. Kimblee doesn’t hear it. All at once the movement he can feel of the hand inside her and the greedy roll of her hips are in one rhythm. She tightens, moans, arches against him, and he thrusts into her with uncontrolled need and trembles violently as he spills himself inside her.

When he lifts his head from the crook of her neck, his scalp is damp with sweat, his lips taste salty, and his fingers are in some pain. But clarity extends beyond the physical sensations. Inside him, vicious need has been sated, madness replaced with patience. He’s content to move from atop Hawkeye when she nudges him. He slides his cock out slowly, as a courtesy. When he checks his fingers, there are unmistakable indentations, and a bit of blood.

“I think I scraped you,” she says. Her limbs shake as she fixes her clothing.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “It’ll be a fond reminder of you.”

Hawkeye’s scoff is quiet, but carries well in the room. “Are you sure _you_ weren’t pretending I was someone else?”

Kimblee smiles. “Do you know you’re a liar, Riza Hawkeye? You never forgot it was my cock inside you.” 

She gets to her feet. “Believe what you want.”

“You won’t forget tomorrow, either.”

“Tonight, actually. I’ve got watch duty in three hours.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And you found the time for me? I’m flattered.”

“It wasn’t about you,” she says at the top of the stairs. “Good night, sir.”

When she’s gone, Kimblee lays back on the cool floor, turning his head to look at the strip of moonlight. It’s a serene night: even the insects are quiet. The sky is a vast cosmic desert, not so much as a breath of cloud drifting by to darken the tower window. 

He thinks about crossing in front of it. Leaping, or darting, a quick reckless rush. Would the sniper in the other tower see him in time to take their shot? Would they have enough skill to put the bullet somewhere it would kill him with icy certainty?

Only if it was her.


End file.
